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OTTTO - Life is a Game

It takes special circumstances to get me to notice a new band comprised of youngsters.  I'm always making the case that there is plenty of quality new stuff out there to assimilate, but the sad truth is that I'm woefully out of touch with the current generation.  Despite my best efforts, I turn into a stodgy sumbitch when faced with "modern" metal.  Everyone sounds the same to my weather-battered ears.  Enter OTTTO, a teenaged trio peddling skateboard thrash that doesn't mirror peers.  If anything, these kids look to the 90's for inspiration.  They offer a refreshing sound against a swell of pitch-shifted growls and detuned riffs.  I don't mean they embrace those elements; I'm saying those elements are popular, and OTTTO doesn't rely on that shit.

Apparently, their line-up features Tye Trujillo (son of Rob) on bass.  I'm sure that helps with press relations, but OTTTO doesn't need the rub.  This is fun, kinetic alternative metal...okay, hold the phone.  I don't actually know how to classify these songs.  Now that I'm mulling it over, "skateboard thrash" would probably be perceived as an affront.  All you need to know is that I've listened to Life is a Game - the debut long player - exactly twice in a 24-hour period and felt jostled to work OTTTO into this column.  Can I get away with calling this a column?  Because I just did.

Lunar Aurora - Hoagascht

And so the self-defeating task of genre codification continues with Lunar Aurora, a German black metal collective that expired a decade ago.  The band started as a two-piece in 1994.  There are several full-length albums under this epigraph, but I'm choosing to spotlight 2012's Hoagascht.  It was the last of Lunar Aurora's recorded output, and while I haven't spent time with all of their material, I feel safe calling it their magnum opus.  With past records, you could hear the raw talent on display, but this is where their ideas came into focus.  Electronic components seep into a stark black metal framework, accentuating melodic riffs and shaping unique compositions that, again, I struggle to compartmentalize into brackets that are easy to identify.

For the sake of brevity, let's go with atmospheric black metal.  Comparisons?  Seemingly desultory noises from nature (the rustling of branches, the intermittent hooting of an owl) remind me of Grima, although the music of Lunar Aurora tends to stand on its own.  To wit, there are passages that could be mistaken for reggae.  Evil, badass reggae.  It's not entirely relevant, but I've fallen asleep listening to Hoagascht.  It's super chill.  Contrariwise, the opening riff to "Wedaleichtn" is exceptionally heavy.  Seek it out!  You'll be headbanging in your sleep before you know it.

My B-Movie Spectacular Under the Stars

The pre-party.

So for several weeks, I've been planning a shindig where the root idea was to watch an old-fashioned b-movie outside, drive-in style.  That turned into procuring a 14-foot inflatable screen (big thank you to Brian for the projector, by the way), which turned into popping A LOT of popcorn, which turned into inviting friends and calling it an event.  I'd say it went off without a hitch!  Sure, attendance was a little low, but I'll probably do this again in October.

We watched 1957's The Brain from Planet Arous, an inspired selection, if I do say so myself.  Special thanks to Bobby for the technical assistance and for being an all-around awesome dude.  And thanks to Mom for providing refreshments, including adorable ketchup and mustard squeeze bottles (!).  And thanks to Dad for babysitting Lily (his giant granddaughter).  Like I said, there will likely be another B-Movie Spectacular Under the Stars (trademarked), so if you missed this one, A: you basically suck and B: you should start prepping for the as-yet-untitled Halloween-themed sequel.  Costumes optional?  Hmm...

Demon of Paradise

1987's Demon of Paradise is the last of a dying breed.  It probably sounds like I'm about to make a sweeping generalization about le cinema and perhaps spill some culture into your web browser.  Not quite!  Remember, I've recently outed myself as white trash.  I don't aim terribly high with my leisure pursuits.  Anyway, back on topic.  If there is one thing I love more than The Great Bluedini, it's the oft-forgotten man-in-a-suit creature feature.  Yes, I'm aware that I've covered these grounds before, but you have to oblige me, for today's subject is different.  Today's subject is underscored with a tincture of tragedy, a canopy of calamity.  To my knowledge, Demon is...well, was the last pre-CGI b-budget monster movie that I had to cross off my chopping list.

I've seen 'em all!  That's incredibly depressing.  I suppose that there is a chance, however minuscule, that I'll ferret out another diamond in the rough, but I'm mercurial (read: hard-headed).  My criteria doesn't allow for much breathing room.  I'm talking about monsters, man.  And it has to feature actual special effects, so that eliminates the lion's share of shot-on-video eyesores.  NOTE: I dig shot-on-video eyesores, but again, I'm on the prowl for monsters.  If a title springs to mind, please - for Roger Corman's sake - let me know.  I was hoping against hope that Demon would extricate the embroidery from my hooves (or knock my socks off, whichever came first).  Unfortunately, it fails to live up to the VHS box art.

The plot should be familiar to anyone who rented Piranha or Humanoids From the Deep back in the day.  I adore this sub-subgenre, so I wasn't discouraged by the fusty, run-of-the-gill (thank you, thank you) premise.  A herpetologist stationed in Hawaii believes that a recent rash of murders may be the evidence she needs to prove the existence of a local cryptid.  The cops are skeptical.  The journalists are skeptical.  The starfish are skeptical.  Cadavers continue to pile up, but of course, that doesn't convince the tourism board to lay low.  Good God, I could be describing a quintillion direct-to-video flicks.  Yet I maintain that wouldn't matter if Demon had its priorities straight.

I can live with the creature design.  That's one area where the box art doesn't wildly embellish and color outside the lines.  Conversely, we see the damn thing in broad daylight before the opening credits.  C'mon, movie; work with me here!  The death sequences are desiccated.  I counted more explosions than dead bodies, and that's using the metrics of Joe Bob's drive-in totals.  The film does deliver a prodigious pair of boobs, hence the Z'Dar rating.  You know what's really sad?  The acting is halfway decent.  To be precise, the acting pushes Demon of Paradise past miserable and smack dab in the middle of mediocre.  Ouch.

 

Reviews of Fuck #4 - HOLY WOOD!

I'm not going to check, but it seems like I start these reviews in the same fashion.  Okay, I just checked, and my hypothesis was proven to be irrefutable.  I always say that I'm currently in the mood to jam anything but Marilyn Manson.  I believe it was atmospheric black metal the last time around.  As for right now, I'm listening to...atmospheric black metal.  My capricious tastes drift further and further away from industrial rock.  So why cover this genre?  For starters, I made a commitment (that I'll be breaking soon enough).  But also, my tastes did align with those of your average goth kid at one point in my checkered past.  I never looked the part, but my inner child was festooned in dog collars and tar-colored lipstick.

In high school, I didn't mix with any particular clique.  I roamed from circle to circle like a nomadic jester, angling to make jocks and nerds laugh at the same jokes.  Through all of my peregrinations, I secretly identified the most with the aforementioned goth crowd.  I paid attention when their idols were scapegoated for the Columbine massacre, and to be honest, I kinda felt bad for them.  It was patently clear that the music in their headphones wasn't going to turn them into copycat killers.  Of course, Manson shouldered the strain of society's disfavor, and I remember thinking that he addressed his critics with tact.  That was then.  Today, I'm not sure that he takes his image seriously, and to me, it shows in his art.

That's where I'm heading with all of this folderol, by the way.  I'm trying (and possibly failing) to draw parallel lines between Manson the dude and Manson the rock star.  In 2000, he was at his creative peak.  I don't think it's a coincidence that Holy Wood contains his best vocal takes.  That may be conjecture on my part, but girl, you know it's true.  "GodEatGod," the album's investiture of sorts, demonstrates his control over his baritone range.  He has a nice vibrato, too.  It goes without bleating that Mr. Warner's primal scream is in fine form.  Overall, this record is habitually heavier than its predecessor.  The fact that Mechanical Animals dwelled on ballads didn't bother me, but I'm cool with headbanging to the staunch riffs of "The Fight Song" and "Burning Flag."  You could say that I'm multi-talented.  Y'know, if you wanted.

The radio hits ("Disposable Teens," "The Nobodies") are fun, but as with Antichrist Superstar, the pudding is in the deeper cuts.  Or the proof is in the pudding.  I don't know...insert your pudding idiom here.  "Lamb of God" capitalizes on a synthetic drum loop, resulting in a pensive tune that contends with "Target Audience (Narcissus Narcosis)" for the title of Dom's Favorite Track.  I'm serious about curating my own awards ceremony.  That's a tangent for another day, however.  I referred to ballads earlier; Holy Wood possesses some of Manson's more enchanting mellow moments, especially the despondent "Coma Black."  And in my opinion, "Cruci-Fiction in Space" should have been released as a single.

The album loses focus towards the end of its running time.  It could be argued that there are simply too many songs on offer, an infirmity shared by Animals and maybe even Superstar.  The term "front-loaded" is popular amongst nervy twats.  I will admit that it applies to this album, but that's hardly a wicked offense.  For those keeping score, I'd rank Holy Wood as Marilyn Manson's second best long player.  The band's lineup saw a shuffle in the immediate aftermath (post-touring, that is).  We'll cross that bridge when we see it.  Or we'll build a bridge and cross it.  I don't know...insert your bridge idiom here.

    

Glaucoma White or Why I Love You

My collection is growing!

Once every blue-green moon, I try to remind my readers that I value their eye sockets.  Some of you have pitched in via Patreon to support the site, and I really appreciate it.  Due to my everloving "condition," I don't occupy a conventional spot in the workforce.  The Patreon funds don't keep the lights on or anything, but it does allow me to make some pocket money doing what I enjoy (i.e. writing about weird stuff).  That's invaluable.

In summation, if you want to keep your pretty peepers--wait a second...I probably shouldn't threaten violence on anyone.  Let me rephrase that.  If you're interested in donating to the site through Patreon, click HERE.  If you're interested in donating outside of Patreon, you can.  Just e-mail me at spookiesgore@gmail.com.  Alright, let me get back to work.  Cracking your whip is optional, y'know.  And you don't have to enjoy it so much!

Holidays

I think...I think I may have poor taste.  I can already hear you now.  "Well, duh!"  WELL, I was holding out hope for myself.  Last night, I started to watch 1994's Nadja, an artsy vampire film that seems to exist in the David Lynch universe (the frost-haired auteur is dealt a small role as a morgue receptionist).  I couldn't last thirty minutes.  It was too pompous for me, and the bleak black-and-white cinematography meant that I was willing to play ball.  I'm not much of a Lynch fan either.  Don't give me that look; none of this should surprise you.  My mother can attest to my trash status, as my first words were "the grim reaper in Spookies deserves its own movie."  My birthstone is latex, for crying out loud!

Okay, enough schtick.  I'm just trying to make you understand why I would stream 2016's Holidays long after it has lost its relevance.  If Nadja is a silver platter, then this flick is a lunchbox (thermos included).  There was a time not so long ago when anthologies were being churned out in perpetuity.  We have Trick 'r Treat to blame for that.  Of course, Trick 'r Treat is excellent.  It knew how to interweave bite-sized bits of sardonic horror, whereas Holidays forgoes the wraparound narrative and still finds a way to come up short.  There are eight vignettes underscoring eight holidays.  We have New Year's Day, Valentine's Day, Mother's Day, Father's Day, Easter, St. Patrick's Day, Halloween, and Christmas.

Almost invariably, it's a mixed bag.  Stuff I liked?  The cast.  Madeleine Coghlan is suitably sinister as a lovestruck teen waif who takes broken hearts incredibly seriously.  Isolt McCaffery is too damn creepy as a little Irish lass with a malevolent smile.  Sophie Traub is believable as a dejected mother-to-be who doesn't want to be a mother (I'm right with you, sister).  Seth Green is always Seth Green, so that's cool.  But I'm not feeding you anything sustentive by simply listing actors and grading their performances.  You want to know whether or not Holidays is a worthwhile anthology.  All I can say is, there is precisely one horror "short" set around Father's Day.  And I don't see cake anywhere, do you?

Try as I might, I can't bash these festive frights outright.  The production values are well-groomed, the pacing is snappy, and most of the pejoratives I'm planning on heaving at the script (I'll get there in a second) are relatively minor.  Still, at least half of the segments are neutered by non-endings that flimflam the viewer.  I don't mean to pick on "Father's Day," but what kind of payoff was that?  "Halloween" has a payoff that makes sense; regrettably, it's not particularly witty or interesting.  I mean, it was written and directed by Kevin Smith, so...yeah.  My tank is empty.  Hey, if the team behind Holidays wants to quote me for a special edition Blu-ray release in the near future, I've got just the catchline - "Imagine Creepshow.  And then watch it.  Just watch Creepshow."

  

Album Cover of the Whatever

I wouldn't normally post the cover of an album that hasn't even been released yet, but I reserve the right to call an audible when the album in question is this tubular.  Ever heard of VoidCeremony?  They play technical death metal.  As it happens, they count among their ranks Damon Good (Mournful Congregation, StarGazer) on guitars and Philippe Tougas (Atramentus, Chthe'ilist, oodles of other projects) on guitars/vocals.  In 2020, they dropped a lean nebula smasher entitled Entropic Reflections Continuum: Dimensional Unravel.  It was gnarly enough to wind up on my year-end list of metal favorites, and if the purple jewel you see before you is any indication, the follow-up is going to be a serious contender for all sorts of spurious awards (I need a cheesy name for my best-of rankings...the Dommys?).

For the record (specifically, this record), I'm gushing about Threads of Unknowing.  The street date is April 14th, and I'm hoping that a CD/t-shirt bundle becomes available.  That logo needs to be somewhere on my person.  This is where I inform you that I wasn't paid to advertise squat, although I'm not above being a soulless shill for the right product.  Are you listening, Coca-Cola?

Blood Capsule #144

THE PAPERBOY (1994)

If I appended "more like this" to the end of each blood capsule, what would you expect to find, assuming that you clicked through to your ultimate destination?  Probably more...like this.  You would see a culvert of b-movie reviews written by a providentially agitated (and devastatingly handsome) horror fanatic.  The IMDb page for The Paperboy has its own "more like this" sidebar.  Logic dictates that it would display a clear watercourse of mediocre domestic thrillers a la The Landlady and Poison Ivy.  Instead, it recommends Nekromantik and Parker Lewis Can't Lose (yes, the sitcom).  And that, ladies and gentlemen, is the most interesting thing about The Paperboy.  I'm tapped.  Okay, I'll type a few more words, but only because I'm not required at the golf course for another two hours.

I have to hand it to Marc Marut, the callow thespian who plays the titular news vendor.  He goes all out, and I believed that he was a deranged derelict.  I'm not sure what to make of the fact that he bowed out of acting shortly after wrapping this direct-to-video cheapie.  Alexandra Paul is almost too wholesome as the devoted den mother.  On second thought, her chastity creates a nice contrast with her grubby co-star.  The pace is nimble.  The storyline may be predictable, but I didn't mind watching it untwine.  That's the key, kids!  If you're not doing something new, you better do it well.  To that end, I'm off to polish my manuscript, a shot-for-shot remake of The Paperboy.  If you notice, I've included a screen grab from the trailer (be nice, it's only the workprint).

Rassle Inn #38

So AEW Revolution.  Obviously, if we're playing word association, the first thing that comes to mind is...?   That's right.  The Great Muta!  Muta finally retired earlier this year, and while I've always been a huge fan, I wasn't able to catch his final match (against LIJ fixture Naito).  Bummer.  One of the three musketeers of puroresu, Muta left us plenty of badass matches to watch.  Everything from his moveset to his entrance attire was simply regal.  For better or worse, his legacy is stained with blood.  Quite literally.  How do I mean?  Well, one of his early bouts gave us "the Muta scale," a ceremonious (or unceremonious, depending on your perspective) way for fans and journalists to gauge the amount of blood in a match.  Abrupt paragraph break!

The Texas Death Match between Jon Moxley and "'Hangman" Adam Page would flatten the scale.  Leafing through comments online, it would appear that the intemperate fight was a hit with AEW's faithful.  Of course, I fucking hated it.  Hate is a strong word; it's also appropriate for today's column.  Am I the only sucker who wants professional wrestling to make a grand return to the mainstream?  I'm talking about success, folks.  I'm talking about 1998 levels of success.  Sure, everyone knows it's a work now, but that's no reason to keep the business on the fringes of established entertainment.  There is a reason why ECW never challenged the throne, so to speak.  Timing played a role, but blood played a bigger role.  Blood, blood, blood!

There is no clever stagecraft behind jamming a fork into your opponent's forehead.  Anyone can do it.  Mox/Page was so violent, it snookered the show's natural momentum and robbed the following matches of a clamorous crowd.  I never thought I'd say this, but I preferred the TNT Championship match between Wardlow and Samoa Joe.  Why?  Because it was wrestling.  There were moves and stuff.  Thankfully, the crowd came back for the main event.  By the way, Bryan Danielson's juice job should have been our first sighting of blood for the night.  Actually, I can't remember who bled first (it might have been MJF), but you get my point.

In horror films, gore is supposed to be the icing on top, not the cake.  The tendril, not the filament (???).  The same logic applies to all combat sports, whether they are predetermined or not.  Last night's Texas Death Match served up nothing but icing, and by the end of it, I was ready to vomit.  I'm just one curmudgeon, though.  No doubt, the Muta scale will be tipped again, and AEW's ratings will remain stagnant.  You can't have your icing and eat it, too.  Ask yourself, what would The Great Muta do?  Holy shit, that rhymed.

Geek Out #160

I recently bought the first season of this show on Beta.  Okay, it might have been on DVD.  Point is, I'm going to watch the hell out of Gargoyles this weekend.  Who said Saturday morning cartoons are dead?  ADDENDUM - I might watch 1972's Gargoyles while I'm at it.  Yeah, that's the ticket!

Now Playing

Tourniquet - Pathogenic Ocular Dissonance

Metal is a vast, prodigious genre.  As such, it's pretty easy to stumble upon a diamond in the rough, an accomplished banger that has plummeted into the inexorable depths of obscurity.  No doubt, you've heard oldheads extol the virtues of countless impenetrable albums that were recorded in the wilds of Poland in 1936, and man, these fans just can't believe that no one else has heard of Five-Horned Whipcrack Christ Coagulant*.  Sometimes, I wonder if those same people are panning for gold with a wide net.  Overlook the fact that I just butchered a metaphor and indulge me for a second.  Dude, do you have any idea how many badass Christian metal albums have been disgorged because they are Christian metal albums?

With the exception of clear hate speech, I've never dismissed a certain band on account of their lyrics.  Christian, Satanist, Buddhist, Necrophagist, whatever...if you're bringing serious riffs to the table, you're cool, in my book.  All denominations are capable of shredding.  Case in point, Tourniquet.  I'm choosing to spotlight 1992's Pathogenic Ocular Dissonance (their third - and presumably best - full-length), but they have released ten thrashterpieces to date.  As if the title didn't give it away, Dissonance has a Carcass vibe to it.  However, the songs contained therein cover A LOT of ground.  I'm hearing flecks of death metal, speed metal, thrash (obviously), hard rock (several cuts are garnished with Alice in Chains-lite vocal harmonies), and funk.

A recent find, sure, but this has to be one of the best Christian metal records of all time.  And frankly, you can't tell that it's a Christian record, so don't be a blockhead.  Favorite track?  I'll go with "Ruminating Virulence."

*Everything after the first demo sucks.

Thy Listless Heart - Pilgrims on the Path of No Return

I didn't plan it this way, but in an anagogic twist of irony, the man behind Thy Listless Heart has ties to epic Christian doomsters Seventh Angel (he played guitar on their swan song LP, The Dust of Years).  The man's name is Simon Bibby and he is credited for doing "everything" on Pilgrims on the Path of No Return.  I could be wrong, but I don't believe this was meant to be a Christian project.  Not that it matters.  This thing rules!  Recommended for fans of Solitude Aeturnus and My Dying Bride.  The vocals are mostly clean (and intensely impassioned), though Bibby has a formidable growl.  Over the past two weeks, I've listened to Pilgrims more than anything else, and it's not terribly close.

Favorite track?  I'll say "The Precipice," but you need to hear it all in one fell swoop.  To give you an idea of how much I dig this record, the bare Celtic elements didn't send me to the porcelain throne (yeah, I don't like Celtic music).  If you're into doom, pamper this papoose pronto!